


Paterson's Favorite Things

by roanniom



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roanniom/pseuds/roanniom
Summary: You and Paterson enjoy a quiet Wednesday night.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson) & You, Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Paterson's Favorite Things

Paterson lives a simple life. He loves nothing more than his routine, his poetry, and his woman. The former two, in his mind, exist to center and celebrate the latter. He wakes to you in his arms in your shared bed, goes about his day to contribute to your shared life, and returns to your shared home in the late afternoon. To watch as the failing sun dances across your smiling face while you tell him about your day and work on your latest culinary endeavor.

You shuffle towards him with a wooden spoon full of spicy goodness, offered up to his lips with a hand held below his chin to catch any rogue, saucy drips before they can stain the bright white shirt he wears around the house. Paterson swallows down the flavorful liquid – a recipe that is one third your grandma’s Bolognese, one third Thai curry from a recipe card found tucked in a book about ducks you’d borrowed from the library, and one third pure imagination. Pure you. The spices tingle on his tongue and in his throat as they go down and he can’t help but think that they even taste like you. That essence you exude with abandon –

A zing, a zest, something that burns or stings if you hold it on your tongue too long, like a lemon.

Oh but also like a lemon, if you hold it to your tongue long enough, it almost becomes sweet. Your mouth adapts, allowing saliva to pool and neutralize the harshness till the citrus takes on a honeyed quality.

“What do you think, Pat?” you ask, licking delicately at the remnants of sauce still coating the spoon after his taste. “Do you think it needs some salt?”

Paterson blinks, the poetry of spices and lemons disappearing from the air where it had begun to swirl around him. In its wake he sees your sweet smile, waiting for his feedback.

“I don’t think that needs a thing, honey.” Pat licks his lips and offers a small smile. “It’s perfect.”

This, too, is part of the routine. Sitting on a kitchen chair. Tasting the concoction of the day. Seeing the colors and the feelings and the images swirl through the air as his mind whizzes in response to your energy. Your laugh. Your attention.

Soon he will go downstairs while you finish preparing the meal. It’s another part of the routine. You inspire him, and he tries his best to put those thoughts into words, patiently pushed against notebook paper in sturdy, dependable graphite. He doesn’t worry too much about getting them just right. If the words are borne of the way he feels about you, that’s about as right as it can get, after all.

At night when he falls into bed with you, so begins the part of his day which blends his favorite things together into one – routine, poetry, and you.

Like clockwork, you grab lavender oil from the nightstand and dab a little on your wrists, temple, and neck. Then, in a habit that came about without discussion but which both of you wordlessly enjoy, you turn and dab a little on his chest, following the line of his sternum. His old habit of wearing his comfy white shirts to bed had long been discarded when met with your preference for sleeping skin to skin.

You put the small bottle away and move on to, in his opinion, the best part of this routine. Gracefully throwing a leg over his wide hips, you straddle Paterson’s strong body, leaning down to breathe in the fragrance now emanating from his freckled skin. His large hands encircle your wrists, your palms flat against his broad pectorals to steady yourself in your nightly mission. You kiss in an upside down T shape up his body – kissing your way right from center to lick his left nipple, kissing your way left to lick at his right nipple (usually prematurely taut from your ministrations on its twin) and then back to center before traveling upward to the base of his throat.

And Paterson is Paterson. Always so sweet and patient. It is at this point that you roll your hips against his, a silent signal of permission. He grabs your face on either side, pulling it down so your mouths can meet. Paterson’s tongue is needy as he tastes you. Tastes your zing till saliva pools and the kiss is wet and sloppy but oh do you taste like honey.

This is the one time he allows himself to be selfish. And you crave it. You encourage it, spurring him on with breathy little moans and words of praise, both of which he feasts on. One hand slides up your body to encompass your left breast, feeling the weight of it and kneading it with splayed fingers. His other hand snakes around your hip, over your lower stomach and between your folds. Seeking your wetness. Seeking your warmth.

“Pat, you feel so good when you touch me like this.” Your words are direct. You are not the poet. But the clarity of your feelings, expressed simply, makes his head swim. Makes his cock harden even more between you. You reach down to join his hand between your legs, managing to gather some of your own wetness which he’d greedily claimed. You bring your hand back up to slide your slick over his cock, your hand barely large enough to span the circumference. That doesn’t keep him from moaning however, a sound that vibrates right to your clit.

You grind your hips down harder now, riding his hand as he slips one, then two, then three fingers into your wet heat. You writhe and pant above him and it happens again, but this time the vibrance is almost blinding. Colors and feelings and images swirl through the air as his mind whizzes. Full of you.

But unlike before he does not go downstairs to put words to feelings and pencil to paper. No. Instead, he translates the feeling directly into your body. Your back hits the mattress and he is above you, hands touching squeezing caressing every inch of skin he can reach. His lips meet your nipple, your neck, your stomach, teeth and tongue spelling out words on the canvas of you.

When he plunges inside of you, you cling to him for a few seconds as your body adjusts to his size. Your panting in his ear provides rhythm. A cadence. When he begins to move, steadily in and out, this is the beat he snaps his hips to, dragging his cock through your sensitive walls. Your sharp gasps of pleasure punctuate his thoughts, your breathy moans little flourishes that make his mind go blank and his hips stutter against you arrhythmically.

When his hand reaches between you both and massages your clit, he is tracing out words that belong to no language known to man but which anyone with a heart and a lover would immediately recognize. You writhe beneath him and bite your lip with eyes squeezed tightly shut. Paterson, however, never takes his eyes off your face.

When you cum, you scream his name.

Paterson, however, cums quietly, instead pouring poetry into you, wringing poetry out of you, and surrounding you engulfing you smothering you with the weight of it all. You are no poet yourself, but as the heaviness of Paterson’s body sinks you deeper into the mattress, you feel the way you imagine Renaissance women of old must have felt, great patronesses of the arts who inspired and admired.

And you know this is silly. Because this is just sex on a Wednesday night.

And this is just you and Paterson.

But Paterson kisses you then on the forehead, as he does every night as the breath calms in his chest.

Paterson loves a simple life. 

~*~


End file.
